14,000 Years Before the Reign of King Oxlinger I

The drums rumbled low and steady. Wormose lingered at the clearing’s edge, breathing in the faint perfume of damp leaves and blooming nightflowers. Tonight, the Korilippi Jungle—usually so full of life—seemed to hold its breath. It’s as if the ancestors themselves are waiting, Wormose thought. Somewhere beyond those ancient trees, the Scorsorai stirred.

A sharp twinge tightened his jaw as he recalled them: Scorsorai—half mortal, half dragon—spawned from the twisted dragon god Scorso. More than warriors; they are destroyers, he remembered his scouts saying. Their claws ripped through armor like cloth, and their fiery breath scorched entire villages to ash.

Wormose had listened to rumors carried south by ragged refugees who’d fled the northern plains. The Scorsorai banners rose above once-proud fortresses, a grim sign of their conquests. Now their reach extended to the jungle’s border—the last bastion of resistance.

“The mages,” Wormose breathed, his voice scarcely audible beneath the nocturnal symphony. Tilting his head, he glimpsed three moons overhead, their combined glow filtering through the canopy and dappling his weathered face. That pale radiance hinted at the magic coursing through the forest. Somewhere within those shadowed depths, the world’s last mages gathered—a dwindling spark against the rising darkness. Their fragile but potent power was all that stood against Scorso’s divine wrath. And Wormose, bound by blood and oath, intended to protect them to his dying breath.

“It’s not just the mages they hunt,” he muttered, tightening his hold on the spear’s haft. “They’re after hope itself. They’d see it snuffed out.”

A burst of laughter from behind wrenched his thoughts back to the clearing. His people, warriors to the core, feasted with gusto—roast boar, jungle fruits, and root beer so potent it stung the throat and dulled the nerves. In a few hours, many of them would fight, and many would die. Perhaps all would. The notion gnawed at him like a school of piranha on raw flesh. With a sigh, he reminded himself: But tonight, we laugh in defiance of death.

He returned to the circle of firelight. Seated close to the flames, his son—barely old enough to heft a spear—gazed at the dancing embers with wide, ivy-green eyes. Like all Wakan Elves, a small third eye, storm-gray, marked the center of his forehead—a symbol of his people’s jungle-born sixth sense. The boy’s had not yet opened, but Wormose knew it would soon, signaling his transition into a new stage of awareness.

Beside him sat Isha, Wormose’s wife. Dark green braids, adorned with bright red feathers, framed her face. She wore the night itself on her skin—deep as a starless sky. Spotting Wormose, she offered a gentle smile that faltered at the edges.

“You should eat,” she said, extending a wooden plate brimming with meat.

He declined with a small wave, then sank to the ground next to her. Gazing toward his son, he asked, “What are you up to over there, little one?”

The boy straightened his back. “Listening, Father.”

A soft chuckle left Wormose’s lips. “A warrior must learn to listen before he speaks.”

The boy tilted his head in curiosity. “But what should a warrior listen for?”

“For the wind,” Wormose replied. “For the jungle’s breath, and for the lies of the enemy.” He shot Isha a playful look. “And for his mother, if he knows what’s good for him.”

Isha brushed her fingers through the boy’s hair, laughing. “You hear that? Pay attention, and you might survive long enough to regret it.”

A slight frown furrowed the boy’s brow. “Will we win, Father? Can the Scorsorai be stopped?”

Wormose saw hope shining in his child’s eyes—still untainted. Every muscle in his body urged him to lie, but deceit had no place on the eve of war. “The Scorsorai have conquered nearly every corner of the known world,” he began. “They’re stronger, they outnumber us, and they march beneath a god’s banner.”

The boy’s expression dimmed, yet Wormose leaned closer, lowering his voice. “But they’ve never battled in the Korilippi. Here, the jungle fights with us, and our ancestors guide our blades. Here, the mages’ power glows brighter than any dragon’s flame.”

Wormose wasn’t sure he believed his own words, but he offered a small nod of encouragement. Doubt twisted inside him, yet he clung to whatever confidence he could project.

The revelry waned, cheers and chatter fading into the stillness of night. Wormose found no peace, even beneath the ancient banyan tree. The drums beat on, an ongoing warning of the impending clash, thudding in sync with his terrified heartbeat. Nearby, Isha and their son stood illuminated by the dying firelight, bittersweet pillars of comfort in a world on the edge.

Nightmares tore at Wormose’s mind when he tried to rest. The odor of congealed blood haunted him until dawn broke, its pale glow creeping over the horizon. He was already awake, his father’s pipe pressed between clenched teeth. Wisps of smoke writhed around him, ghostly reminders of his inheritance: a lineage forged in blood, expectations that clawed at his every step, and the relentless demands of leadership etched into his very soul.

Morning preparations blurred into a haze of sharpening blades and rising smoke. Wormose’s heart felt heavy, his final responsibility looming. At the cold, dark fire pit, he found Isha and their son waiting with worry etched into their eyes. Farewells, perhaps forever, he thought. May as well make them count.

“Isha,” he began, but she silenced him with a measured look.

“You’ll come back to us,” she said. “You promised.”

His sad smile held a hint of resignation. “When have I ever broken a promise?”

She didn't reply, but simply reached out, her arms opening in an embrace that offered silent comfort. “Fight like the chief I know you to be,” she whispered. “And if you don’t, I’ll march into the jungle and drag you back myself.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead, then knelt before his son. “Watch over your mother while I’m gone.”

“I will,” the boy said, little hands balled into fists. “I’ll fight anyone who shows up.”

A tired laugh escaped Wormose. “Not just yet, little one. Your time will come.” But may the gods spare you that fate.

Tears shimmered in the boy’s eyes, and Wormose pulled him into a tight hug. “Be brave,” he said. “And remember: listen.”

Nodding, the boy allowed Wormose to rise. Spear in hand, Wormose took one last look at Isha, fixing her face in his memory. Then he turned to join the assembled warriors, each step carrying him farther from the soft cries of the villagers. The jungle swallowed them in its dense foliage, until only the forest’s own sounds remained—a wild chorus guiding them onward.

The jungle was alive with sound: the rustling of leaves, the distant calls of creatures, and the steady march of Wormose’s warriors. Their feet moved in disciplined rhythm, each step a hushed promise of swift action. Ahead, scouts melded in and out of the thick foliage, their movements almost spectral in the shifting tapestry of dappled light. Every few moments, a signal flashed from the trees—a hand gesture, a faint birdcall—relaying silent messages through the ranks. The foot soldiers followed closely, their breaths even, their eyes alert to the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the towering jungle canopy. Sweat trickled down faces streaked with mud, their armor muted by deliberate smears of green and brown, blending them with their surroundings.

Behind them rode the mounted soldiers, perched atop short, stocky jungle horses bred for the tangled terrain. The horses, hardy creatures with braided manes and charms dangling from their tack to ward off jungle spirits, moved with uncanny grace through the dense underbrush. Their hooves landed softly on the damp ground, muffled by layers of fallen leaves and moss. The riders, clad in lighter armor for mobility, kept their weapons at the ready—bows slung across backs or spears balanced in poised hands. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the tang of damp earth and the faint musk of animals. Somewhere deeper in the jungle, a drumbeat echoed faintly through the humid haze, its rhythm both distant and foreboding. The soldiers’ hands tightened around their weapons as they pressed on, their presence merging with the primal energy of the jungle, where life and death were locked in eternal balance.

Wormose led the column with steady resolve, the humid air clinging to his skin. He knew these parts of the Korilippi well, but an unnatural tension hung beneath the canopy. The trees leaned closer, branches knitting together like conspirators sharing secrets. Even the undergrowth seemed restless, trembling at the brush of each passing footfall.

A shrill whistle cut through the jungle, halting the warriors in unison. Raka, Wormose’s second-in-command, emerged from the shadows and saluted briefly.

“Movement ahead,” he reported. “A runner cloaked in darkness—and mages on his heels.”

“Mages?” Wormose’s voice was calm, though he felt concern stir within him. “Are they from the eastern camp?”

Raka nodded. “Yes, the refugees from the College of Wards. They’re in pursuit. The scouts say whoever they’re after is… unnaturally swift.”

Wormose signaled for his warriors to spread out. They moved like water through the vines, each group taking position among twisted roots and looming trunks. Tension rippled through the air; the scent of damp earth and adrenaline mingled as they braced for confrontation.

A figure crashed into the clearing. Though the day was bright, his hooded cloak seemed to bleed darkness. Shadows clung to the fabric as if alive, writhing in defiance of the sun. The man’s face was entirely concealed, swallowed by a magical gloom that pulsed around him.

He moved with startling speed and power, nearly bowling over two of Wormose’s soldiers before they even had time to raise their spears. Others rushed in, forming a crescent to block his path. The cloaked man lashed out—too strong, too fast. Wormose’s warriors, seasoned as they were, found themselves struggling to maintain their position.

“He’s pushing through!” came Raka’s urgent shout.

But the tide shifted. A crackle of arcane energy shimmered across the clearing as the chasing mages burst into view. They chanted in unison, drawing symbols in the air. Their wards lit up in swirling patterns of gold and blue. The cloaked figure froze, locked in place by threads of magic that glistened like spider silk in the sunlight. He fought back, roaring in a voice that seemed to echo with more than elvish resonance—yet inch by inch, the invisible bonds tightened until he dropped to his knees.

Now subdued, the man sagged, breath heaving, the cloak’s darkness receding like an ebbing tide. Wormose approached carefully, halting his warriors with a raised hand. The mages still held their spell, arms trembling from the effort.

“He’s dangerous,” warned one of them, an older woman whose voice crackled with the strain of casting. “You’d do well to keep your distance.”

Wormose ignored her caution. Something about the man’s stance, even the way he breathed, tugged at old memories. With a deliberate motion, he reached for the hood and pulled it back.

His breath caught in his chest. The face revealed was bruised and thin, a patchwork of old scars and new. Lines of pain etched his features, but recognition was instant.

“Mor…” Wormose exhaled, reverting to the old nickname before he could stop himself. “Morhadis?”

The man’s eyes—wild, dark, and still aflame with residual fury—roved up to meet his. A glimmer of something passed between them, as if years of dust had been brushed aside.

“Wormose,” Morhadis rasped, voice raw. He gave a bitter, twisted smile. “Been a while since anyone dared call me that.”

Wormose motioned for Raka and the others to lower their weapons. Despite Morhadis’s formidable strength, there was no mistaking the exhaustion etched into his very being.

“What happened to you, brother?” Wormose asked, his voice subdued. “I thought…” He let the words trail off. So many questions swirled in his mind.

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Morhadis only gave a harsh laugh that ended in a cough. “Ask your new mage friends. They think they can fix me. Chain me. Make me pay for… whatever it is they think I’ve become.” His gaze cut to the nearest mage. “I can’t be tamed,” he spat.

Wormose looked at the mages, then again at Morhadis. The hush of the Korilippi jungle settled around them, broken only by the ragged breathing of warriors and the faint hum of the mages’ spellwork. In that moment, Wormose felt the burden of choice pressing down on his shoulders.

He stepped closer to his old friend. “Mor… let me help you.”

The jungle fell silent as Morhadis finally ceased his struggle. Thin cords of shimmering magic clung to his limbs, pinning him against the damp earth. The battered remains of his dark cloak curled around him akin to a wounded beast, its edges still squirming with shadows. Wormose crouched nearby, his gaze shifting between the subjugated man and the mages holding the spell.

“What have the gods done to you?” Wormose asked, disbelief evident in his frown.

Morhadis lifted his head, his gasps quick and unsteady. Then he laughed—a low, mirthless chuckle.

“What have the gods done?” he echoed, voice rasping. “Wormose, it’s not what they’ve done. It’s what I’ve ‘seen’.”

Wormose exchanged a quick glance with Raka, then looked back at Morhadis. “What do you mean?”

Morhadis’s eyes gleamed with a feverish light. “I’ve seen the Dinehin.”

A ripple passed through the clearing. Even a few of the mages sucked in sharp breaths. Wormose felt his stomach coil, though he hid it behind a stony expression. “I know the Dinehin,” he said quietly, his voice edged with condemnation. “They’re a curse—wicked, twisted gods.”

“A curse, yes,” Morhadis agreed, the remnants of his grin returning. “Seven gods, bound into one—a blasphemy born of ambition and betrayal. You’ve heard the tale, Wormose: Ilithara, goddess of might, craving more than her domain allowed. But you don’t understand how 'merciful’ the Dinehin truly is. You don’t know what it wants from us.”

Wormose tightened his grip on his spear. “Merciful?” He spat the word. “I’ve heard enough priests and shamans speak of the Dinehin’s wretchedness. Regardless of what it is, mercy isn’t part of it.”

Morhadis jerked against his bonds. “Stories?” His laughter boomed out. “I’ve heard their voices. I’ve seen their memories. Ilithara tricked her siblings into a forbidden ritual beneath the Grand Nova’s light. She promised unity and unmatched power—only to fuse their essences into a single monstrous entity. Seven minds trapped in endless conflict.”

Wormose glanced at the assembly of mages, each wearing a look of apprehension. “As I said, wicked, twisted gods.”

Morhadis’s grin grew sharper. “Listen closely! Because the Dinehin is stirring once more. It hungers, Wormose—and when the Silver Moon, Blood Moon, and Golden Moon align—the Convergence of the Trines—its chosen will rise.”

“More cursed fools like you?” Wormose asked grimly.

“Perhaps stronger than anything we’ve ever seen,” Morhadis hissed. “Even the Scorsorai, the dragon god, pales before what the Dinehin can unleash. But you misunderstand the Dinehin. It ‘grants’ power. It ‘saves’ those who worship it, if only they submit.”

A tense silence settled over the clearing. A deep mourning overcame him as he gazed at what once was a trusted man—a friend. He wondered how much of this was Morhadis’s madness—and how much might be the cold truth he’d long feared.

Suddenly, Morhadis’s voice softened, losing its bitter edge. “Release me,” he pleaded. “Let me fight for you. The Dinehin’s strength flows through me—if you ask them, they will bless you too. Together, we can crush the Scorsorai and anyone else who threatens the Korilippi. Don’t you see? This is our only hope.”

Wormose hesitated, genuine regret sinking into his chest. “You speak of these foul gods as though they’re saviors. You’re no longer the man I once knew, Morhadis.”

Morhadis’s gaze snapped to his cloak. “Then take my gift,” he urged, desperation fraying his voice. “Take the cloak. It will protect you from the Scorsorai, from every claw and flame they may hurl at you. ‘You’ can wield the Dinehin’s mercy.”

Before Wormose could respond, the lead mage spoke sharply. “That artifact is an abomination. We must destroy it.” She cast a wary glance at Wormose. “Do not touch it—it’s steeped in corruption, a power that poisons the heart.”

Wormose studied the cloak. Its folds shifted unnaturally, as though breathing in the sparse sunlight. A chill coursed through him. He turned back to Morhadis. “No Mor,” he said, his voice firm. “I know what the Dinehin is—it twists everything it touches. I will not follow you into that darkness.”

Morhadis bared his teeth in a snarl. “Then you are a fool! The Dinehin will claim this world. They desire it—and all who have knees to bend and tongues to utter prayers. Remember my words, Wormose—remember them when you burn.”

Wormose rose slowly, eyes never leaving Morhadis’s tormented face. His voice dropped to a murmur, not unkind. “You were once my brother. May you find peace in whatever fate awaits you.”

He gestured to the mages. They resumed their chant—a low, rhythmic dirge echoing through the ancient trees. Wormose turned away as Morhadis’s laughter rang out again, a bitter melody of desperation and broken faith.

Above them, the canopy stirred as if unsettled, and Wormose felt a pang tightening his heart. Gods or no gods, he thought, something dark has set its sights on the Korilippi—on all of us. But only the silent watch of the jungle answered, and Morhadis’s mocking laughter faded like a dire omen into the green gloom.

“I will escape this incarceration, Wormose,” Morhadis bellowed a desperate promise. His wrists were bound tight, and a mage’s shimmering spell crackled around him like an invisible chain. “I have faith in my lords. Faith, my old friend—it’s stronger than spells and enchanted objects. Don’t fly to your death like a damn fool!”

Snap. A frantic gesture from the mage, and Morhadis’s mouth vanished, replaced by smooth skin. His muffled cries followed Wormose and his warriors as they slipped deeper into the looming dark.

A damp wind rattled the leaves overhead. Slowly a dread wound in his gut, the way it always did before bloodshed. The Scorsorai were out there—he could smell the sulfur permeating the air, burning his nostrils like acid. He risked a glance back at his warriors, saw their drawn faces and sweaty grips on spears. Good men, outnumbered and outmatched.

They heard the scouts’ alarm first—a short, sharp cry cut off by something wet and final. Then a second voice, shouting, “Enemy ahead!” A handful of heartbeats, and the treeline exploded.

Scorsorai poured in like a living tide. Towering silhouettes of bone-white scales gleamed under the moonlight, their bodies varying in shades of dull ivory or ghostly chalk. Yellow, slitted eyes peered from beneath ridged crests of exposed bone, each gaze brimming with a cold intelligence that belied their savage hiss. When they bared their razor-edged teeth, the reek of sulfur wafted forth, clinging to the heavy night air. Some carried wickedly curved blades that glinted with raw menace. Others clutched short staves crackling with dragonfire, exhaling in ragged wheezes that sounded half hiss, half growl.

Wormose lifted his spear. “Hold the line!” he shouted. His voice felt too small against the roar.

The first impact was brutal—metal clashed on scale, spears shattered, men screamed. A Scorsorai snapped a warrior’s neck with one flick of a claw, then unleashed a stream of fire at another. The stench of scorched flesh filled the air.

Wormose lunged, aiming for the gap beneath an armored throat. His spear bit deep, hot blood splattering across his arms. The beast snarled and crumpled, but another stepped in at once—so many of them. Too many.

He shoved the corpse aside, stepped over the flailing body of a dying comrade. Shadows danced in the firelit gloom, making every shape a nightmare. All around, the hiss and crackle of burning leaves. The Scorsorai came on, unstoppable. A wave of bone hued scales and slitted eyes.

Fast. Too fast.

A blow hammered Wormose from the side, claws raking his chest. His armor buckled, his ribs groaned. He stumbled back, gasping. A savage face leered down, breath hot with sulfur. Desperate, he thrust his spear up. The tip found a seam in the scaled hide; the Scorsorai hissed, stepped back, and Wormose seized the moment—drove the spear home with everything he had.

The creature thudded to the ground, twitching, and Wormose braced shaking hands on his spear. How much blood was his? Didn’t matter. Another foe roared behind him, and he spun, muscles screaming, only to catch a glancing swipe that ripped his shoulder open.

Searing pain.

He spat blood, reeled away. Men were dying all around him—his men. He heard a young voice shrieking for help. Heard a savage chorus of guttural war-cries from the Scorsorai. The smell of their breath, of their scorching magic, filled his senses.

He made an attempt to move, but his legs felt sluggish, every nerve ablaze. One more push, he told himself, forcing his body into motion.

He raised his spear—too slow. A Scorsorai slammed into him from behind, claws scoring his back. His vision flashed white. He pitched forward, face in the mud. Get up, a voice insisted in his head. Fight back.

He managed to roll, breath hitching. Through the smoke, he glimpsed a frantic horse—a maddened beast, riderless, eyes wide with terror—lurching across the battlefield.

“No—” he croaked, but it was too late. The horse’s legs, cut out from under it, tangled with Wormose in a horrid blur of hooves and flailing limbs. Beast and man collided in a bone-jarring crash. The horse screamed, then went slack—its dead weight slammed onto Wormose’s body, pinning him to the wet soil.

Something cracked. Pain roared through him. His world spun. He attempted to suck in air, but his chest wouldn’t move right.

Above, Scorsorai shapes lumbered past, roaring triumph, seeking new prey. They didn’t even glance his way—why would they? He was buried under a dead animal, hidden beneath the carnage.

His vision dimmed. The last thing he saw was a tattered Scorsorai banner gleaming in the firelight—its ancient draconic sigil seeming to mock him in the flicker of moon and flame.

Then everything went black.

Wormose awoke to silence.

The world around him was a charred ruin. The jungle, once vibrant and teeming with life, lay reduced to blackened stumps and smoldering ash. Bodies sprawled like broken dolls—his warriors mingled with the twisted forms of the Scorsorai. Every breath brought the stink of death and scorched earth.

Pain ripped through both legs like a rabid beast, bones shattered, flesh torn. Wormose bit down on a ragged cry, the sound reverberating in his skull. His legs refused to carry him, so he pulled himself forward, arms trembling, palms scraping bloody trails through the ashen soil.

Time stretched into torment. He crawled the length of a day, each minute an age of agony. His vision swirled in and out of focus, sweat and blood burning in his eyes. Yet he pressed on. Shattered mage wards littered the ground—circular symbols scorched like branding irons into the dirt. Robed bodies lay strewn where their spells had failed, hands curled in final, futile gestures.

By nightfall, he reached the jungle’s edge. The moons hung low, bathing the devastation in pale, unfeeling light. Wormose paused, gasping raggedly, and forced himself to look back. The scorched battlefield stretched behind him, resembling a graveyard of broken hopes, the faces of his fallen warriors flashing through his mind. Their names slipped from his lips in a soft, grief-stricken litany.

Then he saw it—his village, its outline just visible in the gloom. A frail surge of hope quickened his heart. He dragged himself the last impossible distance, numb determination pushing him past the agony in his legs.

But as he drew closer, that hope curdled into dread.

The village was gone.

Where once stood the homes of his people, there was only ash. The great banyan tree at the center of the clearing was a skeletal husk, its branches curling with smoke, like a thousand pipes exhaling in unison. Wormose crawled through the remains, his hands trembling. He called out for Isha, for his son, but the only answer was the crackle of dying embers.

There were no bodies, only shadows burned into the ground. The fire had taken everything, leaving nothing but ghosts.

Wormose collapsed beside the charred remains of the banyan tree, its once-mighty roots now blackened and brittle. His heart felt as though it had been torn from his chest, leaving a hollow ache where purpose had once lived. Pressing his face into the dirt, he unleashed a scream that shattered the air, a raw, primal cry of grief.

In the darkness behind his eyes, memories surged like a flood. His son, not yet mature enough to wield his father’s bow, crouched beside him in the undergrowth. Wormose’s hands guiding the boy’s small fingers on the bowstring, whispering the importance of silence, patience. The look of triumph on his son’s face when the arrow struck true. The sound of his wife’s laughter carrying over the spray of the grand waterfalls, her arms wrapped around him as they lay on the smooth rocks beneath the stars. The cool mist on their skin, the warmth of her breath against his neck. The life they had built—now reduced to ashes.

His scream tore through the night, echoing into the endless void before fading into silence. Wormose lay there, his body broken, his spirit drained, hollowed by the relentless ache of his loss.

Then, faint as a whisper, came the voice. It slithered through the stillness, soft and sibilant, like the caress of wind through reeds.

“It does not have to end this way, Wormose.”

“Convert to the Dinehin and be granted power enough to win wars.”

Morhadis’s words rang in his mind, taunting him, haunting him. Wormose clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The Dinehin, the abomination of seven gods—he had dismissed it as madness. But now... now he wasn’t so sure.

“Power enough to win wars,” the voice repeated.

Wormose stared at the rising smoke, his breath ragged. What good was honor? What good were gods if they could not protect his family? If they could not win this war? Tears streaked his soot-stained cheeks. His hands trembled. Beside him, an abandoned blade lay half-buried in the dirt, its metallic chill seeping into his bones. His mind screamed at the injustice of it all. The gods of balance had abandoned him, left him to watch his world burn. The jungle was ash. His people were memories.

Perhaps it is time to choose a new path, he thought, the idea seeping in like a toxin.

No! His hand flew to the blade. Damn it all! I’ll end it here. Before those beasts return, I’ll take my life and deny them the satisfaction of breaking what’s left.

But as he gripped the hilt, hesitation clawed at him. A voice, soft and insidious, whispered from the depths of his mind.

What if this is your chance to survive? To rise? The gods of balance are weak, their justice hollow. The Dinehin promises power. Revenge. If the gods failed you, perhaps it is time to serve another.

His fingers tightened on the blade. “May the gods forgive me,” Wormose whispered. But which gods? Did he mean the ones who had forsaken him—or the ones whose chaos beckoned?

He shook his head violently. “No. No! I can’t... I won’t...” Yet the thought lingered.

Far above, the moons continued their silent dance, their pale light casting soft silver over a man broken by war and seduced by darkness. A man sprawled on the precipice of despair, torn between the blade and the path he swore never to tread.